“Because there are things people are better off not seeing.”
That answer haunted me for years.
And then my father died.
After his funeral, my mother barely spoke.
She would sit in the kitchen, staring out the window, sometimes silently crying.
One morning, I decided to buy her some new clothes.
Beautiful floral dresses and lightweight summer blouses.
“Mom, no one can tell you what you’re allowed to wear anymore.”
She looked at the clothes for a long time.
Then she slowly picked up a white short-sleeved blouse.
“Maybe I’ll try this one,” she whispered.
I helped her take off her old dress.
But the moment the sleeves slid up her arms, my entire body went cold.
Both of my mother’s arms, from her wrists to her shoulders, were covered in old scars.
Some were long, others uneven.
I had never seen marks like those on her body before.
